


where we go

by sugarboat



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Fantasizing, Forced Orgasm, Forced Voyeurism, Hand Jobs, M/M, One-Sided Attraction, Oral Fingering, Other, if that is a thing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-07
Updated: 2018-09-13
Packaged: 2019-06-06 14:31:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,368
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15196814
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sugarboat/pseuds/sugarboat
Summary: Nikola has herself an Archivist, and a captive audience too. What more could a performer ask for?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the kink meme. :)
> 
> Prompt: Elias can't see, so Nikola very helpfully describes to him what she's doing to his Archivist. (Can invole B&H as well if you want!).

“Oh, Elias – can I call you Elias? – you _really_ need to take better care of your Archivists. This one’s in _terrible_ condition!” 

Elias grits his teeth. Nikola’s voice – if he can call her that, the thing that crawled into her skin – is like nails dragging along the insides of his skull. Sharp and loud and scratching. Frantic like a rodent trying to dig its way free. 

The lighting in his office is perfectly calibrated to the work he has to do. Soft and diffuse to temper the persistent threat of migraines while remaining bright enough to avoid eyestrain as he pens in delicate ledgers. There are papers strewn across his desk in casual disarray, a small collection of pens situated near his right hand. A cup of coffee near the left edge, cool and congealed.

Beyond his office lies a dizzy whirl of scenes painted in flighty glances. The assistants conversing in cramped hallways. Martin’s constant, vague emissions of worry and unease as he passes by the closed door to Jon’s office. Melanie crumpling a statement in her closed fist (Elias doublechecks that it is a useless one, a dud – one of the many tales that is just that: a tale). 

And the Institute, a teeming, thriving mass of minds that draws comparisons to the Living Hive. The crawling streets of London as they twine and cross and branch, endlessly, as all roads must, traveling onwards and propagating themselves to minute and distant endpoints. Thick arteries that become arterioles, that become capillaries. Quiet, empty flats that sit along their sides. A cat stretching. A tape recorder on a desk in a dark room. 

Another dark room. Shrouded in the encompassing folds of the Stranger. Strung with tangled strands of marionette strings. The impression of bright, lurid colors lurking in deep shadows. All their details blurred at the edges, dancing with the kind of static that comes with a complete lack of sensory input. 

He still can’t See anything. It throbs like a spike behind his eye.

“You think you’d be more _careful_ , Elias! Didn’t you just _lose_ one? Wouldn’t you just _hate_ for something baaad to happen to _this_ one?”

Nikola’s voice wraps around that spike and wriggles it around in his white matter. Carves figures of her dance into the side of his skull like a cave painting. 

“And just look at the state of his skin!”

There’s a muffled noise that can only be Jon, indignant and terrified in one breath. Really, Jon shouldn’t need whatever Nikola has become to tell him to take better care of himself, but it’s not as though he’s ever bothered to hear it from anyone else. 

“We’re going to have to do something about that, won’t we?” 

Another sound. Pain perhaps. Revulsion. Elias can imagine Jon flinching away from her touch. How wide his eyes grew when he felt absolutely cornered. How utterly sincere his leveled scowl could be. How utterly transparent his attempts at taking hold of his fear and transforming it into something – anything – else. 

Elias grinds his molars against themselves and opens his eyes. His half-finished work swimming into focus, numbers and letters momentarily deprived of meaning. 

“Do you know what I’ve just decided, Elias? I _can_ call you Elias, can’t I?”

She’s not going to stop. Not now that she thinks she’s found a way beneath his own skin. 

“I’m going to _wear_ him, Elias. Just for you!”

Some muffled noise again. Possibly a protest. 

“Are you curious how it works, Archivist? How I’m going to slip you off yourself? How I’m going to _peel_ you?” 

No sound from Jon, now. Elias can, only barely, make out dim shapes moving in the dark; silhouettes of disjointed motion. An Unknown as vast and bottomless as the Sea. 

“Your Master knows how it works, Archivist.” 

Another protest at that, which, honestly, is not surprising. Jon takes some pointed offense at the claim that has been laid over him. At the acceptance of all that he has laid at the Beholding’s altars, knowingly or otherwise. 

Nikola sighs, a high and lilting sound that rushes through a spiral of cascading notes. She sounds quite pleased with herself, and Elias’ lip curls. 

“Such a good little Archivist you are. I can tell, you know. You _are_ curious! And do you know? I’m curious, too!”

A string of sounds, frantic. Elias can imagine the cloth between Jon’s teeth, pulled tight enough to dig into the corners of his mouth. His tongue pressing against it with futile ambition. If Elias were there – if he could _See_ \- he would be able to watch Jon’s throat flex and bob and distort as he swallowed. As his voice shifted through registers in blind panic. 

Elias wonders, suddenly, how else Jon is bound. If coarse ropes are chafing his wrists raw as he strains. Or if strings as thin as garrote wires threaten to slick painlessly through his skin at each movement. 

Nikola makes cooing noises in her pitched, jagged voice. Shushing Jonathan, whose protests – or pleas, the distinction makes little difference - fade and trail off into a weak, strangled whimper, low in his throat. 

Elias shifts in his seat, digging his heels hard into the thick rug beneath his desk. He clears his own throat. Refocuses his attention to the world immediately within his reach. The fact of the matter is that there is very little he can do for his Archivist at this point. Any other Power – any at _all_ \- and Elias would have more at his disposal, some manner of an upper hand; a way to draw back the shutter of Their Influence, allow his own to bleed forth. 

Any other except the Stranger, whom Elias _does-not-know_. 

“I want to feel you from the _inside_ , Archivist – oh, not like _that_ ; it’s too _soon_ for any of that! Stripping your skin from your meat and your bones and your _you_ is going to take much, _much_ longer!” 

A muffled groan. 

Elias has work he needs to finish.

“Your Master is watching. Well, he’s trying to watch – but he can’t! Can you, Elias? Can I _call_ you Elias?”

Elias picks up a pen, angles it such that he can study the way a bead of ink accumulates on the sharpest point of its incline. 

“Would you like to know a _secret_ , Archivist?” 

He straightens in his chair. Presses the blades of his shoulders into the soft cushioned back. All his senses strain, trying to stare into vivid darkness, trying to discern voices in silent vacuums. 

Nikola laughs. As if she knows the tenterhooks upon which she balances the two. And yes, Elias can feel how he shares in Jon’s anticipation.

They would both like to know a secret.

“Your Master is being quite _naughty_! Trying to sneak a peek behind the curtain! Don’t you know, Elias, that will spoil all the fun!”

Elias lets out a breath. 

“Oh, but he can’t _See_ , can he? Can you, Elias?”

His knuckles are white, fingers trembling clenched around his pen, and Elias releases it to clatter and roll across his desk. 

“But I’ve been thinking – I have, I have – that if _I’m_ going to get a little taste before the big show, well, why not you, too, Elias? Would you like that?”

Elias leans forward over his desk, elbows resting on lacquered wood and scattered paper, upon ink long since dried with his inattention. He laces his fingers together and they flex and steeple at sharp angles. 

“And since you can’t _See_ , I’ll just have to bring the show to _you_ , won’t I? Not literally, Archivist, don’t look so _hopeful_! Oh, Elias, you should _See_ his face! But you can’t! 

“Let me describe it for you: he’s all pale and clammy, and really trying to seem _mad_! But he’s not! He’s _scared_. We took off his blindfold, so he can see, but not you! And he’s just so _expressive_ \- not a good quality in an Archivist! He actually looked like he thought you might _rescue_ him!”

Elias clenches his jaw. What can he do but let her goad him? Her fingers scampering at his defenses like tiny needle pinpricks – an irritant, and nothing more.

“But you and I know better, don’t we Elias? Can I call you Elias?”

Muffled sounds; Jon has found his voice again. 

“Oh, I almost forgot! I have to _tell_ and show! You see, Elias, your precious Archivist is locked down nice and _tight_! He’s bound up to this rickety old chair, which is so much _sturdier_ than it looks! His arms are all pulled and twisted around and- why, it looks quite _painful_! Is it _painful_ , Archivist?”

Two short syllables, very purposefully articulated around the gag in Jonathan’s mouth, and a corner of Elias’ mouth hooks up in response. Trust his Archivist to be stubborn and foolhardy to the end. 

“That sounds like a ‘yes’ to me! And it’s so fun to watch him twitch and _squirm_ \- every time I touch him he just tries to wiggle away! Does he do that for you, too, Elias?”

He doesn’t know. Touches had been few and far between the two of them, before. Nothing much more than a hand on a shoulder, limbs brushing one another in passing. It had always carried a hint of Something more, for Elias at least – the feeling one got when touching their tongue to the end of a battery, something sharp and buzzing and promising more. 

The feeling of the Beholding settling upon another. 

Now, he could imagine Jon’s skin crawling beneath his hands, pulling into pricks of gooseflesh under his touch. Would he twitch and squirm and writhe away? Probably. Realistically. But didn’t Jonathan also have the unfortunate predisposition to lean towards that which frightened him most? That which left him unnerved, and unsettled?

“Like right now! You see, Elias, I’m only touching his face, and he’s trying so _hard_ to get away. Down, down, down, and really, Elias, you didn’t train him well at _all_! I’m touching his jaw now, and he’s turned away like a good, _loyal_ Archivist, but it only exposes more of his _throat_ , doesn’t it? And what a _lovely_ throat it is!”

Elias is thinking of it now, long and slender, pale. Translucent in places where the veins run close to the surface. 

Exposed.

Tendons straining as Jon leaned away. Fought with himself on which direction to pull, when Elias already knew what he would do. Could picture Jon’s throat under the press of his palm, Jon’s head canted to the side, gaze directed away, until he did what Elias _knew_ he would do. Until he looked forward, eyes shuttered and dark, until he leaned into the unyielding grip Elias would have on him-

His thoughts were spiraling. Elias didn’t appreciate it. And Jon-

Well, Jon wasn’t helping things, letting out short, sharp muffled noises. 

“Oh no, none of that! No sudden movements, we wouldn’t want any _slips_ , would we?”

There’s a sharp intake of breath from Jon – one that Elias mimics as well, air seizing in his lungs. 

“Oops! Just like that! Oh, Elias, I keep forgetting you can’t _See_! Your Archivist, let’s say he _flinched_ , but he flinched the wrong way, didn’t he? And as I said, my fingers must have slipped and, well, at least there’s plenty of time between now and the Unknowing! Isn’t there? Is there?”

 _His_ Archivist. 

His.

Elias pictures a thin red streamer of blood trickling down Jon’s neck. Then he pictures a hollow plastic face crumpling inward beneath his boot. 

“Do you want to know what I’m going to do next?”

Elias does, and doesn’t. He releases a slow breath, and waits. Watches, as much as his limited Vision allows him. 

“I think I’m going to take that gag out now – did I mention he’s been gagged?”

There’s a sound; Elias assumes it is the sound Jon makes when soaked, ragged cloth is pulled from his mouth. 

“Was it too tight? Did it hurt?”

“Fu-”

Another sound. Wet and choking, Jon’s mouth filled with- with something, Elias can only too well imagine what. 

“Oh! He’s a bitey one! Did you know that, Elias?”

His pulse throbs through his veins. Jon wouldn’t bite him. 

“Let’s see, he’s got three of my fingers in his mouth, and he _doesn’t_ seem to like it, not one bit! I really have come to expect more from your Archivists.” 

Elias groans, one hand gripping the edge of the desk and the other curling into a fist, nails digging trenches into his palm. 

“He’s _soft_ on the inside, Elias! So very accommodating, and slick, and- oh, too far, dear?” 

He hears Jon gagging. 

“So messy, too!”

Saliva pouring over his lower lip, following the withdraw of those fingers as they draw back out of his throat, and - if the squishing, choking sounds that chase it are any indication – thrust in again. 

Could he replace Nikola’s fingers with his own? Picture Jon’s mouth stretched wide and red around them, his throat constricting and squeezing. Would he curl his fingers into the soft meat of Jon’s throat and hollow him from the inside out? Make just enough room inside him. 

Teach him how to breathe, how to swallow, how to let his muscles drag something else down deeper with their efforts. Guide him, and in Nikola’s grating, stabbing voice, _train_ him, and a shudder shakes its way along Elias’ spine, and pools hotly molten in the space between his hips. 

“How much do you think I can fit, Elias? Your Archivist has an awful lot of room for words in his mouth, doesn’t he?”

The sounds become more rhythmic. Jon grunts, muffled, in time to the wet squelch of- well, what Elias can only assume is Nikola’s fingers, or half her bloody hand pounding down his throat. 

They come faster, so much that Elias imagines Jon can’t catch his breath. 

“He takes it quite well, Elias. But you know that, don’t you? Don’t you? Are _sure_ he’s an Archivist?”

He doesn’t. He should. Jon is _his_ Archivist, and yes, he takes everything, _every_ thing well, in stride, and Elias has been digging his fingers into wood, into his own skin, grinding his teeth against each other, his Vision flashing between glimpses of static and glimpses of his empty office.

The desk bracketing his legs, spacious enough to invite another beneath. To let someone else crawl between his splayed legs, two hands cool on his thighs and one mouth, soft and slick and accommodating around him.

Elias tangling his fingers in Jon’s hair, tempering his reluctances and his eagerness in turn. Jon would be eager, wouldn’t he? Isn’t he, always? Eager to please, to prove himself, to _know_ in a way that only those who understand Beholding can long for. 

“Well!”

Jon coughs, the edges of his voice rough and frayed. 

“I think that’s enough for today, don’t you?” 

His Archivist is still trying to catch his breath, dragging in ragged gasps of air. 

“Busy, busy, busy! I’m sure we’ll talk again _soon_ , Elias, wouldn’t you say?” 

Elias curses. Himself, Nikola, the Stranger who blinds him- anyone.

He frees himself from the confines of his slacks, and replays Jon’s gasping breaths, his grunts and pants and moans, until he spills beneath his desk into his own palm.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Now with a surprise part 2! The non-con is more explicit here.

“Elias, your Archivist is not very cooperative, is he?” 

The introduction of Nikola’s jagged voice into his night catches him off guard, and Elias almost chokes on his brandy, hastily swallowing. The liquor sears down his throat, burning up the back of it where he’d nearly inhaled it. He sets his glass down on the nightstand and thinks that she probably has a point.

Elias is not fond of surprises. In particular, he has grown to hate Nikola’s brand of surprise, which he suspects is the point of her frequent and irrationally inconsistent interruptions. It’s been a bit less than two weeks – and two weeks, really, is unacceptable, to have an Archivist missing so utterly, wasting so much time that none of them are at the luxury of having – and her voice has managed to find him at work, in his car, in his kitchen, in the middle of a meeting with Peter and, on a singularly memorable occasion, in his shower. 

That one continues to be a recursive sort of memory. The kind that bubbles up to the surface level of his thoughts more often than is strictly necessary. The hot water beating down on his back, demanding the tension drain from his shoulders, steam curling up thickly in the air, and Jon’s muffled, quickened breathing, like he was panting against his ear, against his neck, into the crook of his shoulder. A quiet sigh, when Nikola removed his gag that night and then the wet slide of her fingers, again, into his mouth, the now-familiar noises Jon made he tried to choke, and just as Elias was thinking of indulging himself, for once, Jon-

Jon bit down, and his shower was filled with the sound of crunching plastic and the sharp trill of Nikola’s indignant shriek. 

A short-lived victory, but one that his Archivist no doubt found deeply satisfying. Elias actually heard him spit – blood, or saliva, perhaps even a bit of her own mannequin pieces – into Nikola’s face. Jon’s snarled but ultimately uninspired _fuck you_. And a pause, then, as Jon took a deep breath, frustration lending enough force to his question that Elias felt it second-hand, skin pinching into gooseflesh when Jon asked – demanded – when he compelled, _where are we_. 

Nikola turned the bloody tape off. The following night Elias had been given front row seats to Nikola introducing Jon to a few of the many, many ways one could cause pain without leaving marks. Without harming skin. But she hadn’t gone near Jon’s mouth since. 

“Honestly, Elias – and I can call you Elias, can’t I? – have you taught him anything at all?” 

Elias sets his book on the bed spread beside him and writes off the next hour or so of his night as a loss. 

“I’ve had to recruit helping hands. You’re in management, Elias – it’s simply not practical! Be good dears and say hello to the nasty, prying eye!”

“Goodday.” 

“Pleasure.” 

Wonderful. Elias considers leaving his bed. He’d rather not be there, if Nikola’s intent is to have him listen in on another round of Jon’s punitive sessions. Jon, himself, is being uncharacteristically silent. Even knowing that such a thing is futile, Elias closes his eyes and opens others, flashes of dark streets and dark shapes, the jerking silhouettes of mannequin bodies as they spin round and round on a stage, limbs held at broken-doll angles. 

Too much to ask for, at this stage – that Nikola would slip, that _those-he-doesn’t-know_ would make a mistake. They’ve made enough getting to this point at all. 

“Does your Archivist get touched much?”

There are wet sounds. The slap of flesh on flesh and a muffled bark of complaint from Jon. Elias knows the answer to her question, of course; he’s quite sure they all do. 

“Oh, I’m getting ahead of myself, aren’t I? I always forget, Elias, that you can’t See what I’m doing, not at all! It must be so uncomfortable for you! So unfamiliar for you! Do you feel powerless, Elias?”

A pause. Jon makes a noise of discomfort, and Nikola’s voice is quieter, almost intimate but no less sharp – as if the voice she’s stolen for herself traded ligaments for garrote wires, lined her throat with broken glass - as she croons, “Do you, Archivist?

“Right, let me set the scene for you, Elias. Your Archivist – I mentioned he wasn’t very cooperative, didn’t I? – well! Breekon’s holding his arms, and Hope is holding his legs – you know Breekon and Hope, don’t you?”

“Excuse me-”

“Hate to interrupt, Missus.” 

“But he’s Breekon.”

“-And he’s Hope.”

Elias massages his temples. 

“You get the idea!” Nikola doesn’t snap. She says it pleasant and chipper as ever, and wastes no time pretending to apologize. “We’re lotioning up his skin today, Elias. It’s so dry, and I’ve told you before – you really should take better care of your Archivists.” 

Ah, yes, his Archivist. Elias can’t imagine the backlash he’d face if he tried to take better care of his Archivist. Even the most tenuous branches he extends to Jon are snapped at their bases, and piled up as kindling for his anger. Misplaced and misdirected. It’s growing pains, Elias knows, but it’s no less frustrating for that understanding. 

“This isn’t the first time we’ve done this, Elias. Is it, Archivist?”

At that, Elias feels an unexpected surge of annoyance. This is the first he’s heard of it, but considering Nikola’s obsession with Jon’s skin, it can’t be unexpected. 

“He’s so- oh, what is the word that I want? Tremulous? Starved? It’s really something, Elias, I do wish you could See – the way he tries not to lean into me every time I touch him. He’s doing his best to pull away, he really, really is, but- what is it? I bet, this is the nicest touch he’s gotten in a long, long while.” 

Elias takes in a deep breath, holding it in his chest. 

“Which means you haven’t been touching your Archivist! Is that right, dear?”

Jon makes another muffled noise. Elias can imagine his cheeks scorched red, above lips just as red, stretched wide around a gag stuffed deep into his mouth. He can picture, easily, Jon with his limbs held strained and splayed, spine arching even as he tries to bow himself away. The diametric oppositions that seem to be part and parcel of Jon himself, always of two minds about everything, leaving everyone except Elias to wonder where he would go.

Everyone except Elias, who has Seen Jon, his Archivist, who has no doubts as to what he will accomplish, eventually. 

“No biting this time!” Nikola says, and Jon’s breath rushes out, unhindered – she’s taken his gag out again. Withdrawn her fingers just as quickly, Elias would imagine. It brings a sharp, satisfied smile to his face. “Why don’t you share with us how you’re feeling, Archivist? Your Master is listening in – he can’t See, but he is listening!” 

“Go to hell,” Jon rasps, voice scratched and rough. 

Nikola gives a tsking sound, disapproving but with a mockingbird’s mimicry of understanding. “Oh, you poor thing. I’ll treat you right, if your Elias isn’t going to.” 

Jon takes in a quick breath, and it might be his imagination, but Elias thinks he can hear the thick sound of Jon swallowing. 

“D-Don’t- Don’t touch me,” Jon says. Elias can’t imagine it’s effective. 

“Now, that’s not going to do. Really, you should be thanking me!” 

“Why the hell would I-” Jon’s question is cut short by a pained cry. 

“Oh, he doesn’t seem to like that! Ease up, lovelies – we wouldn’t want to leave any permanent disfigurations!” Jon goes quiet, except for his panicked, heaving breaths. “Now, Archivist, we have rules, don’t we?” Silence, and then a groan. “ _Don’t_ we?” 

“Yes,” Jon gasps. 

“And? What’s the first rule? The most _important_ rule?” 

“No biting?” As ever, Jon chooses the perfect moment to practice his sarcasm. There’s a heavy slap of flesh on flesh, a grunt forced out of Jon.

“Care to have another go at it?” 

“No questions,” Jon says, snarling. 

“Very good, Archivist! And what should you be doing?” 

“…Thank you.” Quiet and loathful, though whether that’s directed more towards himself or his captor is up for debate. 

“Look at that, Elias! Oh, that’s right, you can’t look! But your Archivist _is_ capable of learning!”

Jon makes a low sound of irritation, one that is Elias is quite familiar with. 

“Now, let’s see, we’re starting with his chest, today, Elias! Have _you_ seen his chest? Hmm? Have you shown your boss all these scars, Archivist? Does he know how many other things – creepy, crawly things, by the looks of it – have left their mark on you?” 

Of course Elias knows. He has seen them, too, but Jon hasn’t shown them to him – not yet. He saw them when they were new, the filth of Jane Prentiss’ Hive still hanging limply from Jon’s skin, dead in the act of burrowing into his soft tissues. And he saw them as they healed, turned into pink, oval ridges scattered across Jon’s body – healed more slowly than they should have, Elias knew, because he Watched Jon worry at them. They were thin, silvery things now. Most of them.

And other ones, too. Older ones, that were already dulled bunches of scar tissue by the time Elias knew he should be watching, that had been raw and then sore and then forgotten long before they’d ever met. 

“Do you, Elias?”

Yes. 

He imagines, sometimes, Jon showing them to him. Would it worry his Archivist, how Elias’ hands and lips would find them all, unerringly? Probably. As if that, somehow – physical exposure – was the worst thing he had to fear. The feeling that he has already been laid bare by their God.

What should worry Jon is the welling tide of desire Elias has, an urging deeper than his own flesh and blood could account for, to cover each and every one of them. To transform every mark and gnarled wind of mangled tissue into sigils for the Eye. To overwrite the claims any one or thing else had dared to try and lay upon his Archivist - _their_ Archivist, Elias amends, because Elias knows well what fuels him, what serves him, what he serves in turn – to warp them with tooth and nail until there is no denying who Jonathan belongs to, scrawled plain across his skin for all to see. 

“Maybe _I_ should leave a mark! What do you say, Elias – can I call you Elias? Would you like to see what _we_ do to people’s skin?”

“I thought you just stole them,” Jon sneers. Elias finds himself bracing to hear whatever punishment Nikola so enjoys doling out, but the Dancer just laughs, the sound like crystal straining tight and then cracking under pressure. 

“Oh we do much, _much_ more than that, Archivist! Why, just look at this one!”

Jon makes a noise half way between horror and disgust, and Elias’ lips twitch upwards at one corner, wondering what Nikola’s decided to show him. 

“W-What- ah, you-” Jon’s talking over himself, thoughts racing faster than his mouth, “Wait, just- wait! T-The dance! Uh, wouldn’t- something like, god, like _that_ , it would ruin the- the costume.” 

Elias is mildly certain Jon just referred to his own skin as a costume. 

“Do you think so?” There’s the wet sound of something fleshy slapping onto a hard surface; Elias assumes Nikola dropped the remains of whatever mutilated creature she’d been holding to the floor. “I think it adds a touch of, let’s say _character_ to the ensemble! We’re not looking for perfection, after all. Well, not from _you_.” 

Jon heaves out a shuddering breath. Elias can hear every one of his frantic inhalations. Nikola had a point, before – Jon makes his emotions too obvious. 

“Shall we ask your Master what he thinks? Oh, silly me – he still can’t See! I just keep forgetting!” 

“Wonderful idea,” Jon says, “Elias, what do you think? Just a light skinning, or would you like to see _your_ Archivist chewed up a bit first?” 

Jon practically spit the word out – sarcastic, bitter; angry with him, no doubt – but it still sends a pleasant shiver down Elias’ spine to hear him say it. 

Nikola laughs, delighted. “Careful, Archivist, that mouth is going to get in you trouble! Haven’t you learned that, yet? Oh, Elias, I would say I’d rip his throat out – and what good is an Archivist without _that_ , hmm? – but I think that would be doing you a favor!

"Such a pretty throat it is,” she says, and there’s a dull thumping sound, and Jon groaning, low and quiet. “It would look quite fetching all splayed open, wouldn’t it?” 

“I-I-I’m partial to it as-is, thanks.” Jon’s voice is shaking. 

“Plenty of time for you to change your mind,” she says. “Or is there? Is there time?” 

“It’s- hard to say, isn’t it? What time it is. I mean, it’s- it’s dark in here. I-I can only see- wax figures, no windows, no sounds of traffic-”

Details that could have been helpful, if they weren’t dealing with the Stranger. Elias smiles, even as the sound of Jon being slapped again echoes in his room.

“None of that, Archivist,” Nikola says, but she doesn’t sound amused anymore. “Your Master isn’t going to come rescue you, and you haven’t made many other allies, have you? The Eye Watches and it Knows, but what good is any of that if it can’t do anything about it? Your Master is going to Watch- well, not _Watch_ , not really; he’s going to hear me peel every inch of skin from your still screaming meat, and then he’ll watch _you_ Dance, but it won’t be _you_ , will it? It will be _me_ , inside _you_!

"Doesn’t that sound lovely?” 

There’s a long moment where Elias can hear only the whirr of the tape recorder. A quiet choking noise, and then Jon gasping for breath. He pictures a slender, painted mannequin with her limbs at subtly wrong angles, her hands wrapped around his Archivist’s throat. The row of interlinked bruises she’s no doubt left like a collar around his neck. 

He has to forcibly relax his fists. 

“Ah, maybe I’ll be leaving your Archivist with some marks after all, Elias!” 

It’s quiet again. Something squelches; Elias wonders if it’s something that used to be a person. Jon’s ragged breathing goes fast again.

“There we are! There’s a good little Archivist!” Jon says nothing, but Elias can picture the withering glare he must be aiming towards Nikola. “Now, before I got all distracted, there was something I wanted to share with you today, Elias – I can call you Elias, can’t I?” 

“St-stop,” Jon says, weakly. 

“No more interrupting, dear; it’s time to use your manners and let your betters do the talking,” she chides. “Now, Elias – I can call you Elias – I have mentioned that he’s just so _reactive_ to being _touched_ , haven’t I?” 

A tight sense of anticipation stirs through his limbs. Elias finds himself straightening in bed. 

“Your Archivist tries to put on a brave face, doesn’t he? Play the stoic? He’s no _good_ at it, but he does tries!”

Jon’s making- sounds. Noises. They come through muffled, like he’s biting his lip, or his tongue, quite literally. 

“But there are just these places he can’t _stand_ to be touched! Do you know where they are, Elias? Have _you_ touched them?”

“Stop- stop,” Jon breathes out between heavy gasps of air. “Don’t touch me, damn it.” 

“This throat of his, for instance. Why, if I use my nails, just so, down the side there-”

Jon gives a long, drawn out groan, of a spectacularly different quality than the ones that have come before it, though no less pained for it. Elias sucks in a sharp breath. 

“But that’s not all, Elias! Oh, what am I saying, you know, don’t you? Don’t you know? Don’t you _want_ to know?”

Elias wants to know. It’s his nature, of course. 

And he knows some of them, already. Has Watched Jon bring himself off – sporadically, never nearly as often as Elias would expect – clutch himself harshly, scrape his own nails against the seam of his hip. 

“Be a dear and spread his legs, won’t you, Hope?”

“It’s Breekon, ma’am,” a Delivery Man grouses. 

“Right you are! Further, fuuuuurther – there, that’s perfect. Comfortable, Archivist?” Nikola asks.

“Fuck off,” Jon says, tight and strained. 

“Wonderful! Do try and keep in mind that it’s not your _bones_ we need for the Dance, hmm?”

Elias wonders how he’s arranged. He pictures broad hands on Jon’s thighs, a thick body between his spread legs, pinning them back and wide, putting his Archivist on display. 

“You see, Elias – oh, you don’t, you don’t See, not at all – it’s right- here-” she says, and Jon makes a soft whining noise which she soothes away. “Yes, I think you’re getting the picture, aren’t you?” 

What part of him is she touching? It’s pure speculation, but Elias thinks of the tendon at the basin of his hips, at his inner thighs, Jon spread to the point of strain and Nikola’s fingers rubbing into tight, trembling connective tissue. 

“Do you think his cock is hard, Elias? Should I tell you?” Jon stutters out something and then sighs. “Would that spoil the surprise?”

“Stop that, just- just _stop_ ,” Jon moans, and there’s a breath, and he says, quietly, “Please.” 

“Oh! Did you hear that Elias? Do you know what I’m doing to him? Do you like your Archivist’s little cock? I think I’ll tell you – it’s hard, but I don’t think he likes this. Do you like this?” 

“F-fuck-”

Another slap. 

“Tell me you like it, Archivist.”

“No, I-”

Another slap. Or perhaps a punch, one of the heavy fists of her servants cracking into something tender. 

“Tell me you like it – it’s easy, you can repeat after me. Nikola, I like the way you’re touching me.” 

Silence. 

“Well, it looks like he doesn’t want to play along anymore! But you do, don’t you Elias? You want me to keep going? There are so many other ways to touch your Archivist, aren’t there?” 

“Don’t,” Jon says, again, redundant, and useless. “You- you don’t have to-”

“I don’t _have_ to? Oh, but I want to!” 

Jon cries out sharply. 

“Have you been inside your Archivist, Elias?” 

Elias lets his head flop back against his headboard. His cock is hard and straining beneath the sheets, tenting them slightly, but he keeps his hands twisting in the comforter. 

“This part of him’s even softer than his throat. Tighter, too, if you could believe it! I can barely-” she grunts with exertion and Jon gives a bitten off shout- “- _shove_ two fingers in there! I think we’ll work up to three – or four, who knows! – today!” 

One hand on Jon’s cock, the other with fingers buried up to the hilt inside him. Elias imagines how he would crook his fingers inside him, those hitching breaths and muffled sobs dragged out of his Archivist through pleasure, through want, of course he would want it, of _course_ -

“Do you like this, Archivist?” 

“I-” Jon starts off acidic, cut off by his own noises, and there’s a new cast to his voice when it returns. “I-I like it.” 

Quiet. Resigned. 

“What was that, dear?” 

“I- Nikola,” Jon recites, grunting as the breath is fucked out of his lungs. “I-I like the way you’re touching me.” 

“Of course you do,” she says. The slick sounds of her hands moving continues, Jon’s increasingly distressed cries in time to the thrust of her fingers inside him. “You’re nothing more than a tool, begging for a Master to use you. Elias has taught you as much, hasn’t he? Tell me he has.”

“Yes,” Jon gasps. 

Already at the point of agreeing to what she says. Not because he believes the filth she’s spewing from her mouth. 

“Yes, what? What are you?”

“A-a tool,” Jon says. “E-Elias, he taught-”

“Do you want me to stop, Archivist?” 

“Yes! Please stop, stop-”

Another, louder cry, sharper, higher. Elias presses his hand to himself through his bedding, hissing at the relief the action brings. 

“Oops! My hand must have slipped again. Three fingers now, dear.”

“Stop, Christ, damn it, fuck you-” 

“And we had been doing _so_ well, Archivist! Elias, I’m not even touching his cock now. Do you think he could come like this? Just on my hand? My fingers are almost all the way out – he’s twitchy inside and out! – and now I’m pushing them back in, slowly, very, _very_ slowly.” 

“St-stop,” Jon demands brokenly. 

Elias is thinking about burying himself deep within his Archivist, slowly, very slowly, transforms the words into half-formed pleas. 

_Don’t st-stop._

And his mind replays the briefest snippet of Jon’s voice, plaintive, desperate: _E-Elias_.

“That’s not going to work with me, Archivist – you should know better! I’m not a _nice_ person! I’m not even a person!” 

He can hear her pick up the pace, suddenly, the squelch of her hand, the little noises forced out of Jon in time to them. 

“Elias on the other hand, well, he might be more inclined to listen to you. Why don’t you ask him?” 

“A-ask him-” Jon’s question is ended in something like a sigh, a disbelieving sort of sound.

“Oh, excuse me, Elias, I didn’t mean to interrupt your Archivist. I was just _so_ curious how far I could spread my fingers in here! Now, as I was saying, I really think you should ask your Master to stop.” 

“I- ah, I don’t understand,” Jon says. 

“Ask Elias to stop. He could put a stop to this, couldn’t he? That’s what you think, isn’t it Archivist?” Another grunt from Jon. “Ask. Him.” 

“E-Elias,” Jon breathes; the hot surge of arousal is soured just as quickly as it swells. “Please, stop.” 

“Oh, you know your boss; you’ll have to better than that!” 

“Please, Elias- oh, god.” Jon’s breathing has picked up again, and there are more noises, the rhythmic slap of flesh on flesh (though one of those, Elias knows, is not really flesh, not anymore), the slick squeals of lubricant. 

“Come on, Archivist,” Nikola urges. 

“Don’t- god, don’t- stop, please, Elias.”

His voice is higher, wretched, and Elias can picture his body tying up tight with corded tension, hips canting into Nikola’s hands. 

“Keep going, Archivist, you’re so nearly there!” 

“Ah- fuck, Elias, d-don’t let them- make it stop, please,” Jon begs. 

Begs. 

And comes with a trembling sort of silence, evident only by the erratic pattern of his breathing, by Nikola’s excited cooing. The way his voice snaps and breaks and falls quiet. 

“Oh, sorry dear – I guess he wasn’t listening after all!” 

The only sound for a while is Jon panting to catch his breath. 

“Maybe next time!” 

A sob, a laugh, and the tape recorder shuts itself off.


End file.
